When I Look In The Mirror
by Armless Penguin
Summary: Reimagined in 'Even Closer.'


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Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or No Use For A Name, I'm just doing this for fun.

Everything that we see is another's suffering

Learn to enjoy the message your TV is delivering

You're safe behind the glass like being at the zoo

The face of guilty thoughts turns around and looks just like you

Don't want to be another victim, but you watch them suffer

Organized, de-sensitized, and trained

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Saddest Song - **No Use For A Name**

When I Look In The Mirror

Outside the majestic castle of Hogwarts it was sweltering; the air was heavy with humidity, as though a thick wool blanket was covering the area and blotting out any chance of a cool breeze. The sun blared down upon the unsuspecting countryside, creating a visible haze of heat. Water from the lake evaporated, sending the gas up into the same clouds that many desperately hoped would quickly empty onto the liquid starved landscape. Sweat beaded upon the foreheads of the unlucky few who worked outdoors, and they were forced to wipe it off, swigging a drink from their water containers; their sole respite from the intense blaze of fiery weather. It was a fierce summer; one of such power that it overshadowed any of recent memory. Perhaps, many thought, it was an omen.

That notion, however, was of no consequence to the Order of the Phoenix - who sat in meeting deep within one of the school's many secret passages. Their visages were solemn, grim, and a palpable frost fluttered around the dimly lit room, utterly belying the unyielding temperature outside the castle's walls.

There were eight members in all sitting around the meeting table, a smaller version of the House tables that lined the Great Hall, though older and shabbier. Dust was layered on top of it, and one Severus Snape scrunched his pale nose in disgust, all the while muttering about the obscene conditions. No one said anything. For they knew that it was all an act; the sallow Potions professor was as shocked and appalled as anyone at the news, but he chose to deal with it in his own way. They couldn't deny him that.

Molly Weasley sobbed loudly and unabashedly onto her husband's shoulder, thoroughly soaking his off-white shirt through; he had taken off his robe upon entering the room. Arthur, for his part, held her silently, tightly, even though he himself looked about ready to collapse from horror.

Every face in the room was a Picasso, twisted in fear, regret, and a nauseating sense of pain.

Remus Lupin stared fixatedly at the tabletop, face emotionless, and eyes expressionless. His thoughts were clouded and swimming, indiscernible. He vaguely realized that this was it; he was finally alone, his last link to the past: gone. Being so unbearable, the thought was merely fleeting and thus hung around the outskirts of his mind, never really sinking in to be comprehended.

Over his half-moon spectacles, Albus Dumbledore took in the small group. Delivering that single piece of information had been harder than anything that he had ever had to accomplish; even more so than telling Lily and James's closest friends of their betrayal and murder. The wizened wizard, suddenly seeming to show his age, shoulders slouched, wrinkles defined, knew that though he attempted to appear calm, the others saw right through him. Inside, he was a maelstrom of emotion. Pity, sadness, regret, hate, and love all warred within him. He felt as though he'd lost a part of himself, and really, he mused, he had.

"There must be some mistake!" The shaky voice of Nymphadora Tonks broke the heavy silence. "That can't be right!" The young Auror spoke the words, but her tear stained face and bloodshot eyes indicated her lack of belief in them.

The Headmaster's own eyes closed briefly while he drew a long breath in before releasing it slowly out in the form of a sigh, "There is no mistake, my dear. The situation is very real." His tone was grave, struggling to make sure his audience understood, as well as to hold back his own grief.

The abrupt sound of a chair sliding squeakily across the floor caused seven pairs of eyes to immediately dart to the black-robed figure of the now standing Potions Master.

"Voldemort calls." The eerie man justified simply, swinging around and exiting the tiny room, his robes billowing after him.

Silence reigned for several moments as everyone took in the sudden new development. Severus had left with barely a word, but they understood. It was literally painful to keep the Dark Lord waiting.

"B-but, t-there could be some chance, right?" It was Kingsley Shacklebot's turn apparently, as he stuttered over his words, returning to the previous subject and calling everyone's attention back to the conversation at hand.

"No," The Headmaster replied, shaking his head, the mane of white hair flowing along with it as he slid back into the gist of the discussion. "Voldemort would not let him live."

"You can't be sure though!" Mrs. Weasley followed up hysterically. "Not unless...unless-"

"We are sure, Molly," The voice of Alastor Mad-Eye Moody interrupted, sounding strangely subdued. "We have our ways."

Dumbledore brought it upon himself to clarify, "We can no longer identify nor track his magical signature. He is either dead, or a powerful display of dark magic has completely warped his magical essence."

"...What?" Arthur asked, blinking in confusion.

"In other words, he is dead, or Voldemort has chosen to use an unidentifiable amount of energy to hide him from us. Either case is plausible. However, the outcome of the latter would ultimately end in the former."

Suddenly, the seemingly stagnant form of the ex-professor Lupin exploded, "You're going to sit here and do nothing when there's a chance he could still be alive?" The werewolf flew to his feet, wooden chair flying backward into the wall and cracking under the pressure; his hands, in fists, slammed down onto the table, shaking the entire room and startling its occupants, save one.

Dumbledore remained impassive.

"There is no choice, Remus." He said gently, voice low and soft. "You have to understand and accept it; Harry Potter is dead."

----

Pain.

An excruciating, intense burning flowing throughout his whole body. He struggled against his bonds as his heart beat ferociously, rushing searing blood to his extremities, regardless of the fact that it was quickly lost, shooting from the numerous gashes that adorned his flesh, or pooling beneath his skin. His muscles ached in protestation, and a small whimper escaped his chapped lips, mingling with the blood rising from the numerous cracks along the said orifice.

The boy didn't think however, he couldn't. All he knew was the overwhelming hurt that lanced through him at the slightest breath. Desperately, he attempted to cry out, but all that was produced was a garbled mess of incomprehensible words and a lonely, sickening scream.

Eyes of a sad, dull green hue darted about wildly, allowing him to perceive but not to understand. Such thoughts were beyond him then, as the inside of his left arm convulsed and shuddered in an unbearable pain. The Dark Lord had been sadistically pleased to be able to press the tip of his phoenix-feather wand into the teen's soft flesh and mutter the incantation for the Dark Mark. The sudden, blinding pain had been too much for the young wizard, and he had proceeded to black out. _That_ hadn't made Voldemort too happy.

His body shuddered in a primal sort of reminiscence as the following days replayed themselves in his exhausted mind.

The man, if he could even be called that, was a Devil, and as such, had found particular enjoyment in watching his captive squirm under the administrations of his very own Death Eaters. The tortures were blurred together, a myriad of disgust, disgrace, and horror. Never before had the boy been introduced to such horrible feelings; bouts with the Cruciatus Curse, punctures from needles that were caked with rust, aged, and most definitely not sterile, and the violent breaking of various bones all became common place.

His throat had long since stopped working, becoming dry and hoarse; it took too much energy to scream, he figured. With his body literally broken and his conscious mind soon following, he was reduced to nothing more than a shell of his old self. The boy-wizard didn't resist anymore; not even when they removed the chains that dug deeply and cut into his wrists, then dragged him to the makeshift interrogation room, did he fight back. He didn't protest when they shoved him down on the large, frigid steel table, attaching the rather olden-style leather straps to his hands and feet. It was of no use.

They didn't listen, no one would.

Not that he really expected them to respond to his half-delusional pleas for pity, but it certainly would have been nice if the masked, nameless faces had done something more than laugh. That was disconcerting at the very least.

In the beginning, the young captive had vaguely wondered where his friends were. What were they doing, and why hadn't they come for him? It was a thought process that his brain had gone through several times in the days, maybe weeks, he had been held. Had they given up on him, deserted the boy they'd attempted to mold into their own personal hero? No, he had refused to believe that; though the Dark Lord seemed rather adamant to press that line of logic.

Time passed, an indiscernible amount. It was impossible for him to in anyway tell exactly how long he had been imprisoned; it could have been weeks, months, or even years. To him, it certainly felt like years. He changed, began to doubt his previous judgment as he endured the numbing and horrifying tortures, and still no help came. An anger welled up within him every time a whip collided with his bare back, or a short knife slid unsubtly under his skin, tearing and scarring his once gentle frame.

Hanging limply from his bonds on a pale gray stone wall, that anger gradually matured into a sort of simmering resentment. He wallowed, eyes swollen shut, body battered and bruised, ego non-existent, but no matter how far he fell, he couldn't bring himself to hate them. It was strange, to feel such betrayal and not be able to actually wish any ill upon the purveyors of the feeling, but his battered mind didn't care. His Hogwarts family were his first real friends, and he would hold up his end of the friendship, even if they didn't hold up their own.

No matter what.

----

Strung up against the dank wall of his cell, Harry Potter hung. Against his back he could feel the cool, moist stone of Azkaban Prison, and in his mind he could feel the haunting thoughts that the Dementor guards inspired. Thoughts of his parents, of Cedric, of Sirius. Normally, such thoughts would have caused him to lose consciousness, or at least to be welled up with such far reaching emotional angst that he would wish he to pass out. Now, however, the boy-wizard was too far-gone, his mind unable to fully grasp the memories replaying in itself. His body was fully numb, and though he couldn't see it, he was sure that it was quite a sight. Ripped, torn, lacerated, Harry had been turned into a human pincushion. A unit with no purpose save to provide entertainment for the Dark Lord and his minions.

It was a hellish existence.

Presently, the rickety, old cage of a cell door creaked noisily open. It swung to one side, colliding heavily with its own concrete base. A robe scraped against the ground as it was dragged along, accompanied by the familiar stomping of boots against the floor. Though the prisoner couldn't visibly make out the newcomer, he felt quite sure that he knew who it was.

Voldemort.

The dark wizard was a vision straight from a nightmare; his skin was ghastly white and unmarked, his nose was shrunken into his face like that of a snake, mere slits, and his eyes were nothing but a deep, haunting blood red drawn deeply into his skull. He wore robes of midnight black, thrown aristocratically over his shoulders and shielding him in the shadows of the night. As he approached Harry, a grin of sadistic glee spread over his features, making him appear all the more gruesome.

He stopped in front of the broken boy, eyes absorbing every detail of his accomplishment. It wasn't everyday, after all, that you brutally wounded your nemesis, the very person responsible for your downfall.

Then, the Dark Lord grew serious.

"Harry," He spoke, voice deceptively silky. "You're looking..._well_ today." His cruel eyes glinted.

Harry didn't reply, he physically couldn't. His cracked lips might as well have been fused shut, vocal cords gone, a faceless ghoul. A rooming accessory set on the wall merely for visual pleasure.

"Still can't speak?" There was a deliciously evil smirk set on his face. "Very well, then. Just move your head. You _can_ still move, I trust?"

He didn't reply, his energy level was null and he didn't particularly want to give Voldemort the excitement of seeing him squirm.

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed, annoyed. He dug a hand deep within a robe pocket and removed his wand, muttering a quick incantation that sent an enormous wave of pain blaring through the boy's body, albeit quickly. It was there one moment, and gone the next. Grinning, the wizard replaced his wand and spoke once more.

"That should teach you a lesson, my boy. You _will_ learn to obey me. I have spent many hours working hard to get where I am, and I will not lose my possession to a foolish boy like yourself." Here he paused, allowing the words to sink in. "Do not dilute yourself, Potter. You will _never_ kill me, Prophecy or no."

Abruptly, Harry started, the little portion of his mind that was still himself staring in shock. Slowly, he began attempting to pull himself together. Voldemort had that effect, as he had learned. The excruciating pain would only get worse if he ignored the Lord.

That Lord, for his part, looked down at the boy superiorly, haughtily, "Oh yes, I know about it. You didn't _really_ think that someone as simple as Dumbledore would be able to hide it from me, did you?" His dark eyes glared evilly directly into Harry's own.

The boy didn't move, he didn't dare to. Of course, he _had_ figured Dumbledore wouldn't allow the information to be leaked, considering only a select few were privy to it. Apparently, though, it wasn't as private as he'd originally thought.

Voldemort laughed, and even that sounded remarkably sinister, a typical villain, "You did, didn't you? Ah Potter, you never cease to amuse me."

Of course, the two of them were linked, and with Harry's mental shields most definitely not at full strength, the Dark Lord must have been having absolutely no trouble at all extracting thoughts from him.

"Congratulations," The smirk once more, the expression was even lining his voice now, if that makes sense. "but I would like to proceed to more important things. After all, my time is valuable. _So_ many people to kill, you know how it is."

The younger wizard knew he was being baited, and was truthfully a bit surprised. He had never really figured Voldemort as being the joking type. Well, you learn something new every day.

The said jokester was pacing around the floor of the cell, swinging from foot to foot, his robes flowing out from behind him. Quite suddenly, he stopped, turning around to face Harry; his ghostly face set in a cruel sneer.

"Tell me, Potter, have you considered my offer?"

It took a muster of almost all of his stored strength to shake his head. He had no idea what Voldemort was referring to with that question. An offer?

"Do you remember what I mean?" He questioned, frowning viciously.

Again, Harry shook his head: no.

A sigh coming from a dark wizard is quite the sight, but when Voldemort proceeded to indulge himself in the rather human act, Harry was too tired to even notice, let alone care.

"My offer," He spoke, his tone explanatory. "Was for you to join me, to become my apprentice."

An involuntary shiver running down his spine, Harry attempted to glare at the being before him. Sadly, his statement of defiance was weak and lousy at best. It was also short, his body lacking the energy necessary to produce one of lasting effect. Overall, he felt rather sour about his performance, and, sensing that fact, the Dark Lord smirked unmercifully.

"You need me, Potter. You need my knowledge. You _crave_ it. I see it, plain as day. As does anyone who has ever set eyes on you."

Had he been healthy, Harry would have spat in the demon's face. His attempt at justification was shallow and untrue, obviously so. The captive wizard was sure that Voldemort knew it as well and was simply trying to take advantage of the boy's near-unconscious state in order to more easily manipulate him. He wouldn't have it.

Apparently sensing his prey's thoughts, the Dark Lord recoiled, spinning about on his feet and stamping toward the cell door. Harry could have sighed in relief, the man was intimidating, and it was always a good thing to see the back of him.

When he reached the cell door though, Voldemort froze. He turned around to face Harry, holding the cool steel of the frame in his clawed hand, the bright silver in contrast with the pale gray.

"You'd do well to remember the Prophecy. If you refuse and I kill you, which, do not doubt, I will, then no one will be left to save your pathetic friends. Everyone one will die. Your precious school will become the headquarters of my dark army and the world will fall beneath me. There will be no resistance. At least, none worthy. For you are the only one who can kill me. You, no one else."

Harry's ragged breath caught in his throat at that exclamation, and he realized that it was irrefutably true. If he was to die, Voldemort would bathe in the remains of the light's former glory. However, he didn't see the man's point. If he were to join the man's cause, the light would be swallowed all the easier. What was he playing at?

"Now, if you decided to join me, a small portion of that could be changed. I would spare your friends' lives and allow them to live in peace under my reign. Make your decision now; die and condemn those you care about, or live and allow them to so as well. What will it be?"

The wizard in question desperately wanted to bellow exactly what he thought of that plan, but logic stayed his bloodied mouth. His friends were held very dear, no matter what they had, or in this case hadn't, done, and the thought of him consciously making a choice that inevitably lead to their demise was sickening. Realistically, though, he realized that siding with Voldemort, no matter what personal reasons he possessed, was not for the greater good. But, could the wizarding world really succeed in defeating the Dark Lord without Harry, who would surely be brutally murdered by Voldemort upon making the "wrong" choice? The wizard in question wasn't especially eager to take that chance. If the downfall of civilization as he knew it would happen regardless, then he would want to make sure those close to him suffered as little as possible, correct?

The irrational, ill thought out logic made some semblance of sense to his still torture ravaged brain, and with a single nod of his head and a hoarse, throaty whisper he sealed the fate of the entire world.

"Yes." He breathed, before letting out a harsh, hacking cough.

Voldemort's face twisted into one of shear sadistic delight.

"Come then, get cleaned up. You have a lot of work to do."

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End Chapter One.

Author's Note: Well, that's one chapter down. This is sort of experiment with this type of fic, and I'm not quite sure exactly how long it'll turn out to be. Probably not _that_ long, but we'll see.


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